


A New Hood in Town

by originalblue



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalblue/pseuds/originalblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph gets stuck with babysitting the newest vigilante in Gotham, much to her dismay.<br/>So why does it feel like she already knows him?</p><p>(Includes spoilers for the mess that was Batman Inc., Issue #8.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_We’ve got a new hood in town._ That was all Proxy had said. _Want to check him out?_

And now Stephanie was here on a Saturday night, missing reruns of _That 70s Show,_ just so she could give some dude in a mask the vigilante equivalent of an unsolicited job review. He’d been around for a few months. She’d heard of him, heard that he was good – _very_ good – and she was reluctant to interfere with whatever his shtick was. Maybe she’d find him and watch him for a while, get a general idea of his style. It never hurt to pick up new moves, or new allies.

His usual haunt was down by the docks, in the warehouse district. The most dangerous part of town, even for people in their profession. _Especially_ for people in their profession. Ever since some shithead had dumped a bad batch of chemicals onto the waterfront, they’d been getting a lot of criminals with physical mutations and brain damage, which wasn’t exactly a good combination for the vigilantes tasked with stopping them.

She parked her bike in a Wayne Industries lot, then double-checked her weapons and com link, leaving an update message for Proxy – she did _not_ want to be stuck here without backup in case things went sour.

Then she put out a heat signature trace and skulked for a while.

The streets were peaceful. It was a cold Saturday night. Everyone was too busy getting drunk or high or laid to commence with serious evil-doing.

After three hours of looking, Steph climbed down a fire escape and went to a Burger King, ordering a Whopper with extra pickles and fries. Her server didn’t seem fazed by her outfit; he probably thought she was going to a costume party. She took her food with a smile and climbed back up another building to eat.

She was finishing the last of the fries and squeezing the last ketchup dregs from the packets when she saw him. He looked tall, at least six feet, although it was hard to judge from this distance, and he wore what looked like a muted green that faded into the shadows. Luckily, she’d worn her super-duper night vision mask tonight, instead of the armor-plated one. She wouldn’t have to spend another hour checking rooftops.

 _Next time I shouldn’t eat and run,_ she thought, balling up the wrapper and shooting it down three stories into a trash can as she moved. She really hoped it made it in, but she didn't have time to check. She could feel her stomach protesting, but ignored it, shooting her grapple and swinging across the street.

It was silent except for her breath and the sound of her boots hitting the gravel on the roof. She ducked around a corner, assessing her situation. The guy knew she was there. He’d stopped two buildings down, and was standing in the shadow of an air conditioning unit.

“Alright,” she whispered, one hand passing over the stitch in her side, “let’s go say hello.”

She landed in front of him with a grin and a wave. “Hey there.”

He stepped out of the darkest shadows. It was still a dimly lit rooftop, but at least now she could see him without the goggles. She’d been right before – he wore dark green and grey, with black accents. He was around six foot four, with medium brown skin, startlingly blue eyes, and a lean figure. His mask covered his hair and the top of his head, merging into the cloth neck of his suit. The suit looked well put together, but on a significantly lower budget than the Bats were used to, made mostly from riot gear and army surplus supplies. It reminded her of her first attempt at Spoiler. He didn’t have an emblem on his chest.

“What do you want?” he asked frankly. “Why are you following me?” She was surprised by his voice; he was younger than he looked, possibly late teens or early twenties, and had such a neutral accent that it had to be contrived.

She gave him her best sunshine smile. “I’m just your friendly neighborhood Batwoman, here to say hello.” He eyed her with mistrust and she continued. “No, seriously, I’m here on behalf of the Bats. We just wanted to know what rules you operate by. We’ve heard you’re pretty good, and you haven’t killed anyone, so this is purely social.” She held out a hand. “Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

He hesitated a moment – sizing her up, she could tell. One one hand she could definitely be a threat, with the weighted frame and the hard-won scars that came from years of heavy combat. On the other hand, she was around eight inches shorter than him and she wore the Bat symbol with an open smile. Finally he took the offered hand. She felt the Kevlar mesh and the metal inserts on the back of his glove, useful for deflecting knife blows. They released quickly – no vigilante was completely comfortable being so exposed.

“Hollow,” he replied. “They call me Hollow. And I don’t kill.” The last part sounded like he repeated it often. “I take them down, then leave them for the police.”

“Awesome,” Steph said. “That means we don’t have to mess with your mojo. Do you know about the other Bats around?”

His scoffed. “Everyone knows about the Bats.”

She laughed. “Right now we’ve got a whole team running. There are a bunch of us, and we move around a lot. If you need something, try giving us a call. We always like to help out hoods on the side of good.” She gave a half-hearted grimace. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rhyme.” She blinked her right eye twice, sending the automated signal to Proxy that meant her meeting had gone well. “Anyways, I gotta split. Movies to watch, people to save, all that jazz.” She unclipped her grappling hook and got ready to aim.

“Wait,” he said, stepping towards her. “How am I meant to contact you?” He moved back immediately after, almost like he hadn’t meant to ask, but had acted on reflex.

“Shit! Sorry, I forgot to give you this.” She handed him a belt-clip communicator. “If you need a place to stay, or just some help in a jam, give this a call.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Or if you just need someone to watch a horror movie with.”

“I don’t waste time watching horror movies,” he said coldly, and she sighed. “Okay, Mr. Grumpy-Face, Hollow, whatever. Just call it if you need help.” She fired the hook and leapt off the roof, rolling her eyes at irritating vigilantes without social skills.

\--

The next time she ran into Hollow was three weeks later, and he was about to die. By the look of it, Hollow had taken out some ten guys before the eleventh had gotten the jump on him. He’d been pinned with an industrial-sized trash can. Steph saved him by cutting the cord around his throat and kicking his assailant in the head.

“That’s what the communicator’s for, dumbass,” she told the gasping vigilante angrily. “You’re lucky I happened to be around.”

She made sure he could breathe, told him to sit upright and tilt his head back to open his airways, and then went after the perp, knocking him out with one tightly bunched fist. _No one_ tried to kill hoods in her city. She tied him up slightly tighter than necessary, hoping he’d bruise.

When Hollow could move, they took the would-be murderer to the police station and dumped him on the steps, with a note pinned to his shirt explaining what he’d done; standard procedure for the Bats.

Then she forced Hollow to go with her on a milkshake run, and he couldn’t refuse because she’d technically saved his life.

They picked a roof to sit on, and slurped in silence. He looked pleasantly surprised by the flavor – she wondered if he’d ever had one before. Last time they’d met, he’d seemed like someone who frowned on unnecessary happiness. He'd fit right in with the Bats. She looked out over the city. She flew through it almost every night, but hardly had time to stop and appreciate the view. By day Gotham was dirty and grey, but by now it was a field of glitter and mist. Colors creeping into the pale sky let her know that it was almost dawn.

Hollow broke the silence when he’d finished his drink. “I don’t know who I am.”

She gave him a weird look. “Are you on some sort of soul-searching quest thing? Because I am _not_ the right person to help you there. I only really know who I am when I’m Batwoman.”

He leaned back with a frustrated sigh. “No, I’m not.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You were Batgirl once,” he said bluntly. “And then you died.”

She swallowed past the dryness of her throat. “Yeah, I was. And yeah, I did.” Her death and year away weren’t things she liked to remember.

“But you came back.” His face was unreadable beneath the mask.

She rolled her eyes. “ _Duh._ Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now what’s the point of the questions?”

“I think…” he shifted uncomfortably. “I think I may have died as well.” He looked out at the rising sun. “I am not sure the same person came back.”

“Oh.” She scrambled for words, aware that she should say something about her own experience, but unable to. “I mean… do you remember waking up?”

He seemed confused by the question. “No. I was dead, and then I was not.”

She raised an eyebrow. She knew a couple of people (not the least of whom was _Jason goddamn Todd_ ) who’d died and returned. They’d all experienced it differently.

For her it had been a blip, pain and softness and darkness in a moment that lasted forever, before a sharp tug had pulled her back.

Jay was different. He’d been dead for months, waking in his coffin. He’d come back half-crazy, kicking and screaming his way back to life until a convenient trip to the Lazarus Pit restored him.

No one else she could think of had just been… suddenly alive again. But maybe that was exactly it.

“Well, there aren’t that many options for raising the dead,” she said practically. “In my seriously limited professional knowledge of necromancy, it sounds like someone bought back your soul.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “What.”

“Your soul,” she explained, taking a swig of her melting milkshake, “Someone must have traded something for it. It’s not that hard to do, if you’ve got something of equal or greater value to trade. Traditionally you trade a soul for a soul, but I’ve heard demons aren’t all that picky.”

He just looked at her.

She smiled at his blank face, trying to lighten the mood. “Hey, at least you’ve got someone who loves you.”

His eyes narrowed, suddenly very focused on her. “No one loves me.” He said it with such eerie flatness that the air froze in her lungs. For a moment she thought she heard a hint of a British accent in his voice.

She forced her eyes from his face. “Well, maybe you should try to change that.” She finished her drink and stood up, watching sunlight spill over her city.

\--

They ran into each other often after that. It started out with Steph just being worried; he’d essentially revealed that he was undead and alone in the world, and she didn’t like hearing that about people. She cajoled him into joining her on patrols, even introduced him to Cass and Nell. He seemed to like Cass, and the two quietly discussed martial arts for the better part of an hour while Nell and Steph tag-teamed a smuggling ring.

“Why don’t you ever laugh?” she demanded one night. “Or smile? I see you almost smile sometimes, but then you stop, like it’s wrong or something.” She met his eyes. “It’s not wrong, you know. You can have fun while you’re kicking ass.”

He gave a slight smile, then, and she blinked at the suddenness. “'There’s room in our line of work for hope,'” he said like he was quoting someone, and the accent slipped back into his voice. She gave him her hundred-and-fifty-percent grin in return, feeling her heart beat faster.

If she was being honest with herself, she thought Hollow would make a pretty awesome addition to Team Bat. She’d broached the subject with Oracle several times, only to be met with “maybe in a few months, after he’s been vetted by Tim or Dick.”

Those words stung a little. Objectively, she knew that any new Bat had to go through a couple of rounds of vigilante show and tell before they were accepted. But it still felt like Oracle didn’t trust her, even after all these years. Even after everything she'd done. Like she still wasn’t enough of a Bat to make another Bat.

It was silly. Steph had brought Nell on as Batgirl a few years ago, and everything had gone so quickly that Steph had gotten used to the express membership plan.

It was different with adult hoods, she knew – after all, she'd been one. For the large part, they’d already been trained, and had their own methods of operation.

That was why Kate and Bruce had butted heads at first. They were different, very different – she was an ex-soldier wanting to protect people, and he was a gazillionaire bent on preventing crime. But eventually they’d worked it out. Kate could function on her own under the Bat’s wide cape, keeping to the no-kill rule and upholding the family name, and Bruce would respect her space and expertise.

She didn't see the old man much these days, but she got the feeling he'd slowed down lately. He'd started leaving the street work to the younger crowd, focusing more on philanthropy and public awareness. It was a bittersweet feeling; having Bruce on the streets had always made them feel safer, but she knew he was in his mid-fifties, and he couldn't keep going forever. She'd rather that he retire than get his wings clipped.

But with the first Batman off the streets, they needed all the help they could get. Hollow could be useful. Very useful. Few people entered the Bats outside of childhood, but Stephanie hoped that maybe another exception could be made.

She found out he was multilingual when he banged his unguarded shin on a piece of broken pipe and began to curse profusely under his breath. It sounded like a jumble of Middle Eastern and Asian languages, with a hint of Slavic thrown in as well. She listened for a full minute, impressed, before he noticed her attention and shut his mouth tightly.

“That’s pretty amazing,” she told him. “I could hardly get through high school Spanish.”

He turned one of his occasional smug grins on her. “I have almost perfect language recognition and comprehension skills.”

She gave a mocking bow, fingers scraping the ground. “So sorry for breathing in your presence, Sir Superiority. I couldn’t see you under all the dirt.” She threw her palmful of grit and dust at his face, then took him down with a well-aimed tackle, laughing at his sneezes.

She peeked into his glowering face. “Wow, you’re super-duper amazing. I took you down in what, five seconds?”

Rather than retort, he simply lifted her up and flipped her over, pinning her with the hundred extra pounds he had on her.

“Oww,” she complained. “Gimme a break. I took a pipe to the shoulder blade when we fought those muggers, and it’s still sore.”

“You have better equipment,” he grumbled. “Besides, I thought you had no weaknesses, Miss I-Wear-Perfume-On-Patrol,” he said, sniffing. “What is that… cheap chemical scented? That could get you caught someday.” Nevertheless, he leaned back, giving her room to breathe.

Her cheeks reddened under her mask as she pushed up onto her elbows. “Hey, at least I’m not so anal about my weapons that I have to clean them between fights in the same night.” She poked him in the jest. “Big jerk.”

He grinned, white teeth flashing against dark skin. She noticed that his mask had ridden up in the back, revealing a tuft of dark hair.

She put a hand behind his neck, and he froze, staring at her. “May I?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

After a long moment, he reluctantly nodded, and she carefully rolled the mask over his ears, up to his temples, before pulling it away from his face.

Ooh. He was pretty. A collection of tiny scars and several bruises were his crime-fighting mementos (Steph had a similar collection of her own). He had a strongly arched nose and dark lashes over heavily defined cheekbones. His black hair was cut short on the sides and longer on top, where it flopped against his forehead. She wondered if he gelled it up when he was off duty. He looked dully familiar – she wondered if she’d met him in college, or at one of the Wayne Foundation dinner parties.

She realized she was staring and smiled nervously. “Fair’s fair. You showed me yours, so I’ll show you mine.” She scooted back from under him, sitting up against a low brick wall and peeling off her gloves. She squeezed her eyes shut as she carefully opened the locking mechanism and peeled off the mask, running her fingers through her short crop of blonde hair. It was sweaty with a night of crime-fighting, and she was sure she still had some motor oil on one cheek.

His brows rose when he saw her hair, and his blue eyes roved her features, making her feel self-conscious. “Something wrong?” she asked tartly, rubbing at her cheek with the back of one wrist.

“No, no,” he replied quickly. “I just- you look the same as- exactly like I thought you would.”

“Should I be offended?”

His brow crumpled. “No! I mean, I thought you would be beautiful. And you are.”

She hoped she was blushing and that her face wasn’t actually on fire. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. You’re kinda beautiful too.”

His eyes creased in the way she knew meant he wanted to smile but didn’t know if it was okay.

“You should relax,” she said, patting his cheek, realizing that it was a mistake when her fingers hit his stubble. She licked her lips. “I, um. We should.”

He shifted forward, carefully resting a gloved hand around the curve of her neck, in her hair.

Her heart was pounding. She swallowed, trying not to lick her lips again.

Then he leaned down and kissed her. She pulled him closer, feeling warm and buzzing pleasantly with the contact. She broke away and kissed his cheeks and his jaw and let him breathe in at the base of her neck. His free hand smoothed a half-circle over her back, making her sigh.

“You’re good at this,” she commented breathlessly, when he was preoccupied with kissing her face. His stubble was a little scratchy, but she didn’t mind. “Have a lot of practice?”

His eyes fluttered open. “No,” he said. He returned to occupying her mouth and eliciting sounds that said _yes, good, there._

They were interrupted by the wail of a siren, and a sudden flickering in the clouds. Steph broke away first, seeing the telltale Bat outlined in light. “We should go,” she sighed, looking back at him. “You game?”

His mouth quirked in a half-grin. “Of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIGHHHHHHHH I miss Steph so much.


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks into their rooftop kissing/crime-fighting sessions, she finally convinced him to watch a horror movie with her. But not just any horror movie – it was John Carpenter’s _The Thing_ , the most horrifying horror movie _ever,_ in Stephanie’s opinion.

It was a drive in, so they sat on her bike and made out a lot. Then they beat up a crime lord’s thugs and saved a couple of citizens and a good night was had by all.

\--

Sometime during the two month span of awesome nights and not-so-awesome days, Steph had decided that this guy was pretty ideal. Unless he turned out to be evil. No me gusta mucha.

In the meantime she felt justified in doing lots of kissing and butt-kicking with him. She had to admit he was kind of a pretty boy, with the body of a Greek god under all the padding. She’d “accidentally” copped a feel several times on patrols, and she knew the feel of hard-won strength. He was a column of muscle and leanness and the weird definition that she knew came from working out for 10+ hours a day.

Generally she liked to know a person’s name before having their tongue in her mouth, but she felt like she was safe with him. He may be kind of a pompous asshole sometimes, but he was never condescending or rude. She got the feeling that he’d been a louder, more confident person before his “death.” So they kept it safe and quiet. Batwoman and Hollow, kissing in a tree. Well, usually on roofs. And in alleys. Sometimes on fire escapes. Once in an abandoned mine shaft.

Tonight was a first – he’d brought her something. She opened the plastic bag and was delighted to find a tupperware of hot, fresh waffles with a little jar of dark syrup. She almost kissed him, but the waffles were calling, and she was honor-bound to eat them before they cooled. They were sitting on the floor of an old rooftop greenhouse; the lock on the door had been broken, the contents stolen, but there were still some small flowers along the counter.

She carefully unscrewed the lid on the syrup and dipped it. Oh. Wow. It was blackberry syrup. She made appreciative noises as she worked her way through the tupperware. God, she loved a man who could cook. When she'd finished, she leaned over and brushed her lips over his. He wrinkled his nose as the sugary aftertaste, and she chuckled.

“You know,” she said, interrupting his mouth on her jaw, “we could um, upgrade this. If you feel like it.” She certainly felt like it. She’d been wondering for the past few weeks if he was even interested in sex. He hadn’t even tried anything beyond second base. Once he’d accidentally touched her boob, and had apologized profusely, blushing a severe scarlet. She’d guided his hands to her chest, letting him know that yes, it was perfectly okay for him to touch her boobs with her permission. Master badass vigilante he may be, but he had zero Casanova experience. She would take it as her solemn duty to teach him, if he was willing.

He pulled away for a moment, giving her room to breathe. “Um. What?” His voice jumped an octave on the second word, making her smile.

“I’m asking if you want me to take off my shirt,” she explained with a smile. The dirty windows afforded them enough privacy that Steph felt comfortable making the offer.

His face under the mask was redder than she’d ever seen. “Oh.” His voice cracked, but didn’t pull away. She grinned again.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She found the stupidly small and annoying zipper and carefully untwisted the safety catches, dragging the pull to her waist. Her elbows got stuck in the suit sleeves. It took her a minute of contortions to get it down to her hips, and to adjust her sports bra and undershirt.

She looked up when she heard him moving, and realized he was pulling off his bulletproof vest and knit sweater. She raised a questioning eyebrow as he shucked everything from the waist up but his black undershirt. God he was ripped. Really ripped. The muscles she’d felt under his shirt were indeed glorious. They were even better under his golden brown skin and its peppering of scars.

“I thought it should be fair,” he said defensively, mistaking her look for confusion.

She couldn’t argue with that. Instead, she pulled him down for some more kissing, because there was nothing else to be said. She decided that while he was using his broad palms to memorize her back, she could cop a feel or two of her own. She walked her fingers down his side, feeling him shiver, and snuck a hand under his shirt. He tilted her chin up and gave her a sloppy kiss; she liked the feel of his five o’clock shadow.

Her hand stopped when it met a heavy ridge of a scar over his ribs. She pulled out of the kiss to look at it, smoothing it with her finger. He’d gone very still. She didn’t think he was breathing. “Is this-” she stopped, trying to figure out if it was polite to ask _is this the thing that killed you?_ Instead, she leaned down and kissed the rough pink area, hugging him around the torso.

She wrapped her arms around him, groaning when he rubbed the back of her neck. He knew all her sensitive spots by now. Her fingers inched down his back, liking the way he arched into her kiss. She took advantage of it by kissing and sighing into his exposed neck.

He retaliated by tickling fingers over her ribcage, making her laugh and grab him tighter.

Her fingers stopped again. Another scar. In the same place as the other one, but on his back. Like he’d been run through. But what had the power to cut like that? It would have had to be flat and wide, maybe three or four inches across. And sharp, with plenty of force behind it. It was almost like a sword.

But who used swords nowadays? They were expensive, hard to maintain, and hard to use. They were a rich weapon, something meant for fancy killings. Truth be told, the only people she knew who used swords were assassins–

She slowly went still, and he pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, panting a little.

She looked at his face. His lips were swollen from kissing, his dark brow furrowed under a soft widow’s peak. He drew back warily from her shell-shocked expression. It was so familiar. All of it was so familiar. She should have known sooner. She should have let herself think about the possibility. People in their line of work didn't stay dead. But it had been years, and she'd let that hope die.

“I think I know who you were,” she heard herself say distantly. Her lips felt dry as bone.

He pulled away from her, standing up, eyes unfocused.

She got to her feet as well, taking a step towards him. She put a hand on his bare shoulder and he turned, his hand sliding to the back of her neck.

“Stop it,” he hissed, half pleading. “Don’t say it. Don’t say anything.” He shook his head as though trying to get something out of it.

Her face twisted between an aching smile and heartbreak. “Don’t say what, Boy Blunder?” A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.

Everything was quiet, and his hand still gripped the back of her neck rigidly, clenched in the nape of her hair. He stared at her, unmoving.

She began to cry for real now, sniffling and feeling the stickiness in her mouth and nose and throat. “I’m sorry,” she said wetly, and he jerked away, releasing her neck. “You were, you were just a kid,” she said, wiping her eyes on one gloved hand, “and there was nothing we could do, and we buried you,” she finished with a wail, “We _buried you._ ”

She fell to her knees, gloved fists thumping helplessly in the gravel. She rocked forward. “I’m so sorry, Damian,” she said, feeling herself break as she said it. Fresh tears poured down her face, and a hiccuping sob caught in the back of her throat, an ugly sound.

He let out a startled half-word that broke before he could finish it.

She looked up into his bright blue eyes, his father’s eyes, his mother’s cheekbones, his, his – his _fucking face,_ and all the languages, and that stupid high-nosed accent he slipped into sometimes, and everything, _everything,_ he was just so fucking grown up, and he was _alive._

 _He was alive._ She stood up. She stepped towards him again slowly, aware that he’d bolt if he was startled. She looked at him, really _looked_ this time, greedily drinking in every detail. He was here. He was here. She couldn’t think about anything else. “Damian,” she said again, voice cracking. How long had it been since she’d said that name aloud?

He looked a little green, and she read the tension in his shoulders as fear. “Stephanie,” he said quietly, and now she knew, _knew_ , _KNEW_ that it was him, because she’d never told him that, never said her name, and he was really standing in front of her, back, back to her.

She smiled through the tears, biting her lip and laughing. “You’re back.”

She stepped towards him, gathering him into a hug, realizing that he was crying too. It took him a moment, but he grasped back, desperately, clinging to her smaller form. Sobs wracked his body, and she held him close and let him sink to the ground as he cried into her stomach.

She held him, eyes shut, focusing on everything that he was, because he’d died, he’d died and she’d buried him, and he was _back._ Nothing else mattered, they could figure it out, they could go home, he’d grown up, and he was alive and he was _here_ with her.

He was _alive._

\--

She'd been there when they brought his body in. She'd seen the terrible wound, seen how small he'd looked in death.

 _He was just a kid,_ she remembered saying at the funeral. _He was just a kid, and he didn't deserve this._

 _Do any of us?_ Cass asked her, voice quiet and firm. _He died protecting. We'll honor that._

 _We shouldn't have to,_ she'd wanted to argue, but the fight had gone out of her. After the service, she'd trudged home through the rain, to her apartment, where she could finally let herself cry and scream and hit things.

\--

She woke up gasping, tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. She pressed her hands to her face, reminding herself that it was a just a dream.

Morning light streamed through her window – she'd only gotten an hour or two of sleep. She turned on her side.

Damian was asleep beside her, broad shoulders moving softly under his black sweater. She knew it was a pretty big thing that he would sleep in her presence, let alone with his back to her. Assassin/Bat kids weren't big on trust.

 _He's alive,_ she thought. _He's right here, and he's alive._

As quietly as she could, trying not to make her old mattress squeak, she moved closer to him and wrapped an arm around him. She had to reach up a little to do it, but it was worth it.

He was awake in an instant, freezing under her touch.

She didn't withdraw, and he didn't move her arm.

“I'm glad you're back,” she said finally, and he relaxed slightly. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder blade, sighing. “I missed you,” she went on, unable to keep the longing edge out of her voice.

He gently shifted her arm, turning over to face her. “I missed you too,” he said, dark eyes studying hers. “I missed being here.”

“In Gotham?” she asked quietly, not wanting to push.

He shook his head slightly. “I missed being with you.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “Can't say I ever thought I'd be in this situation with you.” She tried not to think about the heat of his mouth against her neck and his hands against her back. They'd done some things that were not exactly kosher with her mental image of Robin number five. It had been nine years since he... went away. He had to be at least twenty now. That made her feel a little better about thinking he was hot.

His lips twitched in a grin. “I used to hope we would.”

“What?” she yelped, sitting up. “You were like eleven!” She stared at him. “Are you telling me you had a crush on me or something?”

He shrugged, rolling onto his back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “I didn't really know _what_ I thought about you. I just didn't want you to get hurt, whatever my words to the contrary.” He looked away. “I was... irritated at the thought of you and Drake.”

“Oh god,” she groaned clutching her head. “You totally _were_ staring at my chest that time, weren't you.”

He laughed, and a little of the cold stress that had kept his face stoic melted away. “'What chest?'” he intoned, just like he had back then.

Thinking, she realized with sudden horror that she'd let Damian Wayne touch her breasts. A lot. She'd had her tongue in his mouth. They'd _frenched._ They were sleeping in the same bed. Sure, they both had lots of clothes on, but it was the principle of the thing.

She laid back down beside him, still in shock. She couldn't process this. In the past six hours, she'd necked with a semi-stranger vigilante in an old greenhouse, found out said vigilante was in fact someone she'd used to pretty much babysit, back from the dead, and decided that she was too exhausted to deal with it all before towing him back to her apartment.

She glanced at him. He was looking at the ceiling, thinking quietly.

It was different now. He was – god, he was a legal adult. That sort of terrified her. He'd been scary enough as a little kid with a bunch of super sharp knives, but now he was, he was _Hollow._ He was a vigilante who looked like he'd rolled out of an Abercrombie  & Fitch catalogue and into a mercenary's uniform.

She sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her life was so _weird._

But with all the weirdness that already went on in their “family,” this should really be nothing new.

"Oh my god," she gasped, sitting up a little. He looked at her in alarm. "Dude. What was puberty like for you? Jesus, that must have been a fucking nightmare." She covered her mouth, trying to not to giggle. "Oh god, who did you lose your virginity to? Do I know them? Oh, no, wait, TMI, don't tell me."

He stared at her for a moment, mouth opening and closing, and the proverbial giant penny dropped for her.

"You're a virgin," she said, and swallowed the laugh that was bubbling into her throat. "Sweet Jesus."

His look turned into a glare, and he turned his back on her. Oh yes, the grumpy-faced kid was back in full force this morning.

She grinned, reaching over to stroke his hair. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said, running her fingers over the nape of his neck. She knew he liked it when she did that. This boy was such a fucking house cat that it wasn't funny. "I had sex too young, and I wish I'd waited until I was at least your age to do it."

He turned back a little, mollified, and she leaned over to see his eyes. Their blue was uncanny, a mirror image of his father's eyes. "It's not something I normally discuss," he said stiffly.

She rolled her eyes. "You've touched my boobs, D. I took off my shirt in front of you while we made out. I think we can talk about this."

"For what purpose?" He rolled over until his elbow propped up his head. "I'm a virgin," he said matter-of-factly, though she saw his cheeks darken. "But that's not likely to change any time soon."

"It isn't?" she asked, surprised. "Are you asexual? Because I'm totally fine with that." Okay, maybe not totally fine - his abs were a thing of greatness, and she felt like they needed to be shared. She'd have a whole lot of regret to swallow if she was never getting near those again.

He shook his head, gaze wary. "No, but I thought- I thought you wouldn't- because I'm-"

She pressed a hand to his lips. "Okay. First off. I can't deal with the fact that you used to be an itty-bitty murder brat right now. Okay? Secondly." She smoothed a hand over his jaw. "Just because you used to try to stab me doesn't mean I don't still want to make out with you. And do other stuff," she added, blushing. "For now can we just focus on the fact that you're totally alive?" She swatted his shoulder. "I'm gonna need some details, man, because it's been a long fucking time and you don't seem like you've been back in Gotham for too long." She settled back onto her pillows, not commenting when he took her hand, folding her small fingers into his own.

He took a deep breath and sighed, eyes trained once more on the blank ceiling of her tiny bedroom. "When I died, I was eleven and a half. When I woke, I was thirteen." He ran a hand through his hair absently. "I woke up in a hospital in southern Spain, with no name on my chart and no visible injuries." His hand traveled unconsciously to his chest. "I didn't remember who I was, or where I'd been. I spoke Spanish fluently, so I assumed I was Spanish. I lived there for three years, working as a courier and eventually as a bodyguard. I trained at night and saved up enough to leave. By the time I was seventeen, I'd lived in eight different European and Middle Eastern countries." He smiled. "I liked Rome a lot."

Stephanie eyed him with respect. At fourteen she'd been pregnant and chasing around her criminal father in a cape, trying to get her life together. Hell, she hadn't even known if she was going to graduate high school, let alone go to college. Damian had been traveling around Europe, getting shit done. This pretty much confirmed every suspicion she'd ever had about rich kids getting way better educations than their less well-off peers.

"Then I saw the news report," he said, pausing to shift into a more comfortable position. "It was of Gotham. Grayson had just taken down Ivy and Harley and her demented hyenas." His eyes met hers calmly. "I bought a plane ticket to Gotham that night."

"You didn't remember anything?" she asked, voice cracking.

He shook his head. "I remembered _this_ ," he said, tapping her chest. "The Bat. I didn't know why I knew it, but I did. So I came back. I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew I needed to help. I ordered some basic armor and gear online." He leaned back, stretching his arms and ribs. "Then you showed up."

Stephanie folded her hands over her stomach. "Wow." She swallowed. "Yeah. Then I showed up."

She let it run through her mind for a few minutes, thinking hard about the last few months. "This is unbelievable," she said at last.

He nodded. "I agree." He brought his hand up to her cheek, and she sighed unthinkingly. "But there is something I could use your help with," he added.

Steph leaned forward and gently brushed her lips across his. His eyes fluttered shut.

"Whatever you need," she whispered.

He didn't smile, but his eyes were soft. "I want to find out who brought me back. Are you game?" he asked stiffly, the words unfamiliar in his mouth.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. "I'm game."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The multiverse theory states that everything has to happen _somewhere._
> 
> Therefore, somewhere out there is a world where Damian and Steph make out a lot.


End file.
